


You Can't Leave

by heat_lightning



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Choking, Face-Fucking, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, John Loves Sherlock, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Making Out, Masturbation in Shower, Mutual Masturbation, My First Fanfic, Nipple Play, Possessive Sherlock, Purple Shirt of Sex, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock eventually loves John, Sherlock loves the Work, Snogging, Work In Progress, some infidelity but John does the honorable thing here, some mild drug references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-14
Updated: 2014-06-11
Packaged: 2018-01-19 07:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,388
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1461058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heat_lightning/pseuds/heat_lightning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John makes plans to leave 221b to move in with his boring, ordinary girlfriend. Sherlock makes some deductions about just how Not Gay John really is, and seduces John to keep him around. He needs John's medical expertise for the Work. </p><p>Also, rent money.</p><p>John loves Sherlock. Sherlock loves the Work. Sherlock knows that John at least wants to fuck him. And Sherlock is perfectly willing to exploit John's attractions to him as a means to an end. Obviously.</p><p>Mycroft is not amused.</p><p>Ch 1 - Ch 3 are rated T for some sexual references, some heavy makeouts, and for two very, very mild drug references.<br/>Ch 4 - 8. are rated E for sex and swears. Get your smelling salts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Just Can't

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a longtime lurker. This is my very, very first fanfic, and will be a multi-chapter effort which I'll put up a bit at a time.
> 
> Not beta'd. Not brit-picked. Any volunteers?
> 
> These characters aren't mine. h/t to SACD for letting me play with them, and to the AO3 community for being such beautiful inspirations to me. <3
> 
> Any and all comments welcome.

“Do you really want to go live with someone so absolutely *boring*, John?” I roared, stalking towards John and looming over his chair. “Do you really mean to tell me that you’re leaving?”

John closed his eyes and sighed, massaging his temples with his left hand, his right hand wrapped around his cup of tea ( _couldn’t have been made within the last ten minutes, the cup would be too hot for him to hold it like that if it had been – he made the tea, sent the text, and then sat here,while the tea cooled, waiting for me to come in and shout at him. He’s bracing himself for a fight. Also he still doesn’t know how long it takes me to get from the library to the house, otherwise he’d’ve sent the text and then made the tea, leaving it warm enough for him to drink during our confrontation. Idiot_ ).  After a few moments, during which the only noise in the room was my breathing, which was labored from sprinting home and charging up the stairs, he spoke, sounding tired already.

“Sherlock, be reasonable. Surely you saw this coming.”

“As a matter of fact, I did not,” I lied. I did see it coming. Just not this soon.

He and –( _what was her name again? Patricia? Penny? Didn’t matter, she was the boring one with the nose)_ – that _woman_ had been dating for six months, three weeks, and two days. Based on the recent modifications to his appearance ( _more expensive haircuts, a wool jacket which was almost impeccably tailored, the tailor had been distracted by something when pinning the shoulders),_ I knew that she was, at the very least, not _unimportant_ to John. But I had not sensed that they had already begun discussing cohabitation. _Idiot_. How could I have missed it?

Then it dawned on me. Of course they had been talking about it already. All of the signs had been there, I had seen but not observed. John met her brother only a few weeks ago ( _Polly had a complex where she needed her brother’s approval before any major life decisions, that’s why she didn’t become a nurse and instead became a teacher, she still resents him for it_ ). John had come back to our home – soon just to be my home, I thought bitterly – a few days ago, hair mussed, his dress shirt not entirely smooth under his hideous sweater, the faintest trace of lipstick just under his jaw ( _they’d talked about it at dinner then snogged during the entire movie, that’s why John was so vague about the film_ ). That was when they had talked about it. Last week. He had angled his laptop away from me with especial care in the days following. Probably was looking for a new flat.

And then John had waited until today – four whole days later – to tell me.

“Sherlock, Pam” – ( _Pam. I was close_ ) – “and I have been dating for quite a while now. It’s time that we see if we can make a go of it,” John gestured vaguely, “you know, in the long run. I don’t want to be a “confirmed bachelor” forever, you know. I don’t want to be alone anymore.”  
  
“But you’re not alone, you live with me. Here, with me and Mrs. Hudson!” I pointed down the stairwell, hoping that an appeal about our landlady might sway him. John smiled sardonically and raised his eyebrows. His blue eyes were amused, and his tone was sarcastic but not unkind.  
  
“As tempting as it is to continue living with a high-functioning sociopath and our aging landlady, – oh, and you forgot to mention the fingers and the eyeballs and the moulds and the bullet hole smiley – I’m afraid that I find the idea of living with my girlfriend a _little_ more appealing.” He smiled a little and sipped his tea, then made a face ( _it had gone completely cold, must be a Darjeeling, he’s especially intolerant of an overly cold cup of Darljeeling, would have kept on drinking it if it had been a fruit tea_ ). He stood up, squeezed past me ( _hair completely dry, hasn’t showered today, must not be seeing Polly until much later, must have really anticipated a fight with me to have put off meeting her until so late on his one day off_ ), and went into the kitchen to dump the tea down the sink. I followed him into the kitchen, looming over him as he rinsed out the cup. When he spoke, his voice was calm, but he didn’t look up at me.  
  
“I’ll pay you three months rent for your troubles. Seems more than fair. Pam and I found – we’re moving into our new place at the end of the month and I’m afraid that’s that, Sherlock.”

“John, you can’t –“, I began, as I grabbed his arm and twisted him to face me, to look at me while he was ruining _everything_.  
  
In the span of a second, John’s pupils dilated every so slightly, his lips parted, his breath hitched. I saw his gaze drop from my eyes to my lips, to at some neutral location around my collarbone. I saw him shift uncomfortably at my touch, but not pull away. But the most damning evidence was all was his heartbeat. My grip was tight enough that I could feel his pulse through his sweater. His heart was pounding. About 30 beats per minute faster than walking to the kitchen in the middle of a confrontation would merit. How odd.  

It took me 1.3 seconds to deduce that John Watson was aroused by my touch. It took me another 0.9 second to decide that, if I wanted to keep John as a roommate and as a colleague for the Work, I would have to begin a sexual relationship with him.

John liked me as a friend. He would not have stayed if he didn’t like me. He must like me, in order to tolerate the aforementioned fingers and eyeballs and moulds. And I needed to have at least _one_ colleague who genuinely enjoyed having me around, instead of just tolerating me so I could solve the cases they could not. Sally wouldn’t kill for me. John did it the first day he met me.

But more than that, I needed John around to help me solve cases. Even though he had a frustratingly tiny intellect, his medical training far surpassed my own, and it came in handy in solving a substantial number of our cases.

Also, I needed him for rent money.

I had no interest in John, sexually. Then again, I had no interest in anybody, sexually. I suppose that if I slowed down long enough to admire other humans, I would notice something enticing about their bodies. Maybe. But again, that would require slowing down. And if the Work never slowed down, neither should I.

My lack of a sexual interest in John shouldn’t stop me. Plenty of people had sex with other people as a means to an end. This would be no different. I was vaguely aware there was an argument to be made about the ethics of having sex with your roommate, who had a girlfriend, to make sure that he keeps on solving crimes with you, instead of moving out to pursue a healthy adult relationship.

Then again, I was never one for mouthings about morality.

My plan was cold, it was calculating, it was perfect.  I would start a sexual relationship with John. He’d break up with Portia, and he and I could solve cases until our bodies fell apart from misuse, all in the name of the Work.

I loosened my grip and slid my hand up his shoulder, across the compact, dense plane of his shoulder (now 89% sure it’s the one with the scar), and rested my hand on the side of his face, my fingers laced in the based of his hairline and wrapping around his neck. I leaned him, and breathed into his ear, “You just can’t leave.”

The teacup rolled out of John’s hand, nearly breaking in the sink. He dropped his hand to rest on the sink, but otherwise remained completely still. After a moment, he breathed in sharply, and said, “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

“Isn’t it…obvious, John?” I rumbled, dropping my head down a little further. My lips were inches from his neck. I had never been this close to another person before. I could smell the toast he had eaten that morning, his trip to Tesco, his anxious sweat after a tense phone call with Harry.

“Sherlock, we can’t do this. I have Pamela. You have the Work. We’re friends. We’re friends. You’re my best friend. We’re just friends. I’m moving in with Pamela at the end of the month, and we’re just friends.”

I chuckled into his neck, delighted. Everything was going according to plan. One touch, one violation of personal boundaries, and John already sounded like he needed to convince himself to leave 221b.

John shuddered at my breath on his neck, and I pulled back just far enough to let the sides of our noses touch as I smoothly whispered, “But we never really were _just friends_ , were we, Jo-“.

John interrupted me with a searing kiss.


	2. A Million Tiny Secrets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock snog in the kitchen. 
> 
> John makes a confession, then does the right thing.
> 
> Sherlock is a genius who can deduce the hell out of others, but cannot make simple inferences about himself. 
> 
> In short, John is honorable, and Sherlock is the selfish asshole we know and love. 
> 
> Some passionate kissing and some sexual references, but no smut. Not yet, at least. :}

John’s kiss revealed a million tiny secrets.

Data. So much data. My brain reeled in the sheer volume of the data.

The jam he had eaten that morning ( _blueberry, we must be out of strawberry, blueberry’s his second choice, he must have forgotten it at Tesco when he went earlier, he’ll pick it up tonight if he still goes out with Petunia after all of this_ ), his anxiety over moving expenses ( _doesn’t know if I’ll be able to help him move, and doesn’t want to count on it, so he’s worried about paying for movers_ ), the small sip of Darjeeling he had just taken ( _must be trying to lose weight, he didn’t put any sugar in this time_ ). His lips were thin and chapped ( _slightly dehydrated, but most people are_ ), but very warm and anything but gentle.

Just when I thought I had a handle on the tsunami of information, John’s hands were in my hair, pulling from the roots. The slight pain parted my lips, and any coherent thought I had vanished as John’s tongue pushed past my lips.

 _Warm wet hot forceful_  
 _Hands in my hair, on my back, pushing my jacket up and pulling my shirt out of my slacks_  
 _Hands under my shirt, on my back, one moving up towards my shoulders, the other pushing into my pants_  
 _Thank god I’m wearing the good red ones, he’ll like those  
_ _Why am I thinking about this?_

 _Why do I care which pants I’m wearing for John?_  
 _It’s not for John, it’s for the Work._  
 _It’s all for the Work._  
 _It’s all for the Work, it’s all for the Work, it’s all for the -_  
  
I was pulled out of my reverie with the sound of my own gasp, indecent, guttural, and absolutely shameful, as John pushed my chin upward and bit my throat, just hard enough. He froze at the noise, and I had to blink a few times to refocus my eyes on the kitchen ceiling.   
  
“Too much?” he murmured, not removing his teeth. I swallowed deeply and shook my head, then slowly started to nod. It was too much. I was ashamed to say that it was too much, that John had overwhelmed me, that he had this sort of power over me. But it was too much.  
  
John backed away immediately, and I instinctively started taking inventory. His irises were almost completely eclipsed by his pupils, which were blown wide ( _arousal_ ). His lips were swollen ( _figures, given what a rough kisser he is, he may have also burned himself slightly on my stubble_ ). His stance indicated that he was trying to mask his erection as best as he could ( _doing a poor job of it, bigger than I expected, given his height_ ). My inquiring nature demanded that I stare, that I size him up, quite literally.

John glanced down and smiled wryly.  
  
“Don’t look at me like that, you’re no better,” he said lightly, gesturing at me. I glanced down, surprised to see that he was right. While I was nowhere near as hard as he was, the effects of the kiss had certain externalizations that could not be ignored. I scowled. I couldn't remember the last time I'd had an erection, and the loss of control over my own body left me testy. I turned on heel towards the living room and stalked over to the window. John followed closely, and sidled up next to me, looking earnestly up at my face.

   
“Sherlock, hey, don’t – it’s completely normal, you don’t need to be embarrassed. Hey, look at me. Was that your first kiss?”. I suddenly took a great interest in the gaggle of geese flying overhead and refused to look at John ( _can't tell him the truth, unless he’s into that. You hear about how men are more attracted to virgins. This could work to my advantage. Can’t be too vulnerable though. Can’t tell him too much. Information is a weapon. Information is a weapon. Information is a weapon_ ).

Turning my attention to the peeling paint on the windowsill, I sneered, “Yes, John, if you must know, that was my first kiss. Please, let’s not get sentimental, because I really am not interested in such things.”  
  
John didn’t look surprised at all, either at my confession or at my acerbic tone. “I can’t say I’m shocked, mate, haven’t exactly seen you go on a lot of dates.”  
  
“Being an incomparable genius has the unfortunate side effect of being a distraction from meaningless, vanilla interactions with other humans, John, though I don’t expect you to understand that from first hand experience,” I spat. To my surprise, he laughed, and shook his head. He looked away briefly, over at the bullet-hole smiley, then sighed.

“What was that, back there?” he asked, without looking back at me. When I didn’t answer immediately, he looked up at me, his expression guarded, his lips tightly pressed together ( _he’s bracing himself, he thinks this was all some one-time snog_ ). I noticed, for the first time, the tiny flecks of hazel around his pupils ( _central heterochromia, doesn’t look genetic, must have been acquired from his injuries in Afghanistan_ ). I remained quiet, hoping my reticence would make him fill the silence with the information I needed to make him stay.

John didn’t disappoint.  
  
“Sod it,” he sighed, then turned to go back to his chair. I swiveled around to face him, leaning against the window, crossing my arms. He sat, rubbed his leg ( _really, John, that old chestnut_?), and stared at the acid burns in the carpet. For a few moments, his gaze seemed to shift inward,and he hesitated. Suddenly, he looked back up at me, his eyes earnest, and began to speak.

“Well, as you’ve probably deduced long ago, I’ve been attracted to you since the moment you asked, ‘Afghanistan or Iraq?’. You’re gorgeous, of course you know that, with your hair and your eyes and your bloody cheekbones and that body, but I’ve been around beautiful people and been ignored by beautiful people my whole life. I'm a short man with thinning hair, so I’ve learned not to be too impressed by appearances, having spent so long being dismissed for my own." 

"What blew me away was your intelligence, your wit, the subtlety of your humor, your passion for your work.” John laughed lightly, sheepishly. “I was absolutely taken with you. And yes, I was trying to test the waters that first night at Angelo’s, but you were having none of it, were you? Married to your Work and all, and I didn’t think you were the cheating type.” John smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling. I tried to mask my impatience ( _yes, yes, I'm brilliant, I'm amazing, but are you going to stay or not, John?_ ).

“So I accepted the consolation prize of being your roommate. Hoped you’d notice me, of course, but that hope faded after a few months of being completely ignored by you, at least in that department. Kept on dating, but I still couldn’t shake the thrill of seeing you in your towel, of seeing you bent over the microscope in that ridiculous purple shirt – could those damned shirts _be_ any tighter, Sherlock?” John’s smiled blossomed into a small laugh, and he shook his head affectionately. “You really are a ridiculous man. Maybe that’s why I fancied you for so long.”  
  
“Fancied?” I asked, my voice cracking slightly from underuse. I cleared my throat. “Past tense, John?”

John’s eyes went serious. “Sherlock, we’ve been roommates for years – years! You’ve never once given me the smallest indication that you were interested in me as anything other than a colleague to consult on cases, and a roommate to help you out with rent. How could I continue to lust after you, so recklessly? How could I yearn for someone who’d never want me back? I’m not a masochist.”  
  
“A bit of a sadist, though,” I said before I could catch myself ( _John’s teeth on my neck, the hair-pulling, the forcefulness, he likes to be in charge, explains why he was in the army, explains why he’s a surgeon, he likes the control)._  John laughed, obviously surprised at my willingness to reference our kiss, and more than a little pleased at my boldness.

“Yes, Sherlock, I suppose I am.” He shook his head ruefully. “You’ve got me there.” He looked down at his shoes, and I watched his face carefully, looking for a sign, any sign. I needed to see him doubt his relationship with Penelope, consider breaking things off with her, consider staying with me, in 221b, for the rest of our days.

Once again, John didn’t disappoint.  
  
“I’m not a cheater, Sherlock,” he said suddenly, looking up at me with hardened eyes. “I never have cheated on a girlfriend before. And even if that, back there, was a one-time sort of thing, I can’t, in good conscience, move in with Pam, look into her eyes, make love to her, knowing what happened here today. It wouldn’t be right. And it’s going to hurt her, badly, to have me leave her now, now that we’ve made plans, not just for moving in together, but for our lives. But that’s the price I’ll have to pay for what I did back there” – he gestured roughly over his shoulder at the kitchen. “Living with the knowledge that I deeply hurt someone who trusted and loved me. That’s my cross to bear.”

Somewhere, deep in the recesses of my human nature, something pricked my conscience. I chose to ignore it, in favor of the swelling feeling of hope. John was going to stay. The Work would go on, uninterrupted.

John stood up, reached for his phone, and sent off a quick text, sighing. “Might as well get this sorted sooner, rather than later.” He rolled his head from side to side, stretching out his neck. I watched from my post on the windowsill, trying not to betray my relief at his decision to stay at 221b. My mind started to wander to the things I hoped to accomplish that day – monitor the moulds that John hadn’t found yet in the bread box, go down to Barts’ to harass Molly for a better microscope – when John’s voice cut through my thoughts.

“So that’s that, Sherlock. I’ve wanted you since I saw you. And I’ve wanted you more, and longer, than I’ve ever wanted anybody else. And I hope this isn’t a one-time affair. I understand if it is. But I really hope that this isn’t the last time for us. I just – I really hope it’s not.” John stared expectantly at me, waiting for a response.  
  
I had prepared myself for this, and brusquely replied, “I have sufficient interest in exploring this new facet of our friendship, and am open to more encounters of a similar or of an escalated nature.”

John laughed – the sound was one of genuine amusement, disbelief, and arousal.

“I don’t know why I was expecting anything different from you,” he said, not unkindly. “Well, I can't say I wasn't hoping you'd say that. I've been waiting a long time for this, Sherlock, and I -" His phone buzzed, and he checked the screen, his smile fading instantly. He sighed, pocketed the phone, and moved across the room towards the coat rack.  
  
“Time to go break up with my loving, attentive girlfriend because I snogged my flatmate. Try not to burn the place down in my absence.” John shrugged his jacket on, stood there awkwardly for a moment, and then gave a funny little wave.  “Well, bye then.” He had the oddest expression on his face, like he did not ever expect see me again ( _idiot. Why would I leave? He was the one who was going on about leaving me_ ). 

I nodded curtly, then headed for the stairs up to my bedroom, then suddenly remembered something. I paused, halfway up the stairs.

“John?” I called over my shoulder.

“Yes, Sherlock?” he returned, sounding hopeful ( _for what?_ ). 

“We’re out of strawberry jam. Pick some up while you’re out.” I heard John sigh, then heard the door slam a few seconds later.

I smiled as I bounded up the stairs. John wasn’t leaving me. John was going to stay. Which meant I had a lot of research to do. 


	3. Playing with Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock does some research. Mycroft pays him a visit.  
> John did the right thing, and Sherlock continues to do the wrong thing. 
> 
> Chinese food gets ordered.
> 
> Some references to watching porn, but nothing too naughty. 
> 
> SPOILER ALERT:  
> Naughtiness begins in the next chapter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everybody has been so lovely and so encouraging to me. I hope I don't let you down!

_Such a mess you’ve gotten yourself into, little brother._   
  
_Don’t you have some more diet books to read? – SH_

I scowled and turned my phone over. Seems that I hadn’t found all of Mycroft’s cameras ( _add that to the list of things to do today_ ). I settled back into my chair, steepling my fingers under my chin, half-heartedly watching the pornography in the background.

Research. Obviously. To test my responsiveness to sexual stimuli. Needed more data.

I hadn’t anticipated my physical response to John, there in the kitchen from that kiss. As far as I could remember, I had never gotten an erection from human contact before. Then again, I’d never let anybody touch me like that before. The only people who touched me were criminals who hurt me and doctors who sewed me up after the criminals hurt me. John was included in the second subset, obviously, but he’d never been anything but strictly professional when tending to my injuries.

 After some thought, I decided that my erection made sense, in its own way. Even if I wasn’t attracted to John – wasn’t attracted to anybody – my body could still independently respond to sexual stimuli. It _did_ respond to sexual stimuli. But would it again? Could I trust my body to reliably respond to John if he touched me again?

 _(Really, when John touches you again. It’s only a matter of time_.)

I glanced down, ran my hand over myself. The porngraphy had no effect whatsoever, physically. And I’d even gone through special pains to find an actor who looked like John – short, muscular, with short, neat blonde hair. I gritted my teeth in frustration.

If I couldn’t get hard for pornography, I certainly didn’t trust myself to get hard for John, reliably at least. And if I didn’t trust myself to get hard for John, I certainly couldn’t trust myself to come for him. That seemed to be the expectation of sexual contact, that both parties would orgasm.

This whole “seduce John” affair was turning out to be more difficult than originally anticipated.

I heard the front door creak open. It wasn’t John _(John always took off his jacket immediately_ ) and it wasn’t Mrs. Hudson ( _Mrs. Hudson always wore heels on Saturdays to go have tea with her sister_ ).  
  
“Sherlock, there are much classier websites than that one, even you must know that,” Mycroft called up the stairs.  
  
“Mycroft, how kind of you to lose three pounds since the last time you were here, the floorboards sound significantly less tormented.”

Mycroft stepped into my bedroom, smirking at the chaos. I refused to turn off the video, staring defiantly up at him. Mycroft raised an eyebrow at it, but didn’t comment. After the requisite twenty seconds of staring each other down and sizing each other up, he spoke.  
  
“Care to explain what happened about an hour ago?”  
  
“Only if your hired help cares to explain the masturbation session he had after seeing the tapes,” I said extra-loudly. The stairs creaked, and I smiled triumphantly. Mycroft shook his head and sighed.

“Sherlock, stop torturing the help.”  
  
“You’ve been saying that since I was two.”  
  
“You’ve been torturing the help since you were born,” Mycroft countered, leaning on his umbrella. “Sherlock, you are playing with fire. Even you must know this.”  
  
“Mycroft, it’s not playing with fire if you’re the one completely in control of the flame.”

“I just never thought I’d see you debase yourself to prostitution to keep a roommate.”  
  
“Why, did you think my sparkling personality was enough to keep them around?”

Mycroft looked taken aback, and I smiled delightedly ( _I loved being self-deprecating from time-to-time. It always threw people off because it was the absolute last thing they expected of me_ ). After only a split second of surprise, he collected himself, and started to speak, but I cut him off.  
  
“Mycroft, your intellect must be even tinier than I thought for you to believe that this – that any part of my life – is any of your business.”  
  
“Everything is my business, Sherlock. You should know that by now. And when this goes pear-shaped, and it will, trust me, dear brother, it will be ugly, very ugly indeed. And I don’t want you falling back onto old habits,” Mycroft sniffed, making a big show of tapping my bookcase with his umbrella ( _how on earth did he know that was the last place I’d kept it? he must have had the cameras in 221b since the very beginning. Could be a coincidence. But the universe is rarely so lazy_ ).

“A lovely visit, as always, dear brother,” I said, standing up and buttoning my suit jacket. Mycroft gave me a constipated smile and turned around, letting me herd him out the door. His hired help refused to meet me eyes ( _wanked_ twice _to it, the naughty boy_ ), and I almost had the door shut when Mycroft shoved his foot back in.

“Does he love you?”

“Don’t be foolish. Nobody loves me,” I retorted, kicking Mycroft’s foot as hard as I could to dislodge it. Mycroft bent over in pain, and I slammed the door shut and locked it.

 

* * *

 

 

My showertime recitation of the properties of pi was interrupted by a knock at the door. My eyes snapped open.  
  
“Mind if I come in?” John asked, leaning into the bathroom. I could see his outline through the translucent shower door.

John and I had spoken to each other while one of us was in the shower before. But it was always shouted conversations through the bathroom door (“I swear on everything that is holy, if you touch my laptop once more…”, “John, stop thinking about that girl in Tesco and come out here, the game is afoot!”), never with both of us in the bathroom at the same time. He probably was here to negotiate some sex act or another ( _wonder what he wants – what’s the typical “sorry you had to break up with your girlfriend because of me” sex act?_ ).

“It seems that you’re already coming in, whether I say you may or not,” I observed. I watched John shrug, then come in and sit on the toilet lid in silence. I continued to wash up, while John sat there quietly, looking down ( _he wants me to ask about what happened. Am I even interested in what happened? No, not really. All I care about is that it’s over, and it’s obvious that it is, so no need to ask about how it went_ ). I focused on cleaning my nails. Finally, John spoke, his voice tired.

“She didn’t handle it well. Not well at all.”  
  
“Can’t say I’m surprised, you broke up with a woman you were planning on moving in with by the end of the month.” John sighed, and shook his head.

“Yes, I know that, Sherlock, but it doesn’t make it any easier, now does it?” I said nothing to this, and took the loofah to my elbows. After a few more minutes of silence ( _he wants me to ask how he did it, what he told her, but again, I really don't care as long as she's gone_ ), John up against the shower, resting his head on the glass door, his silver-blonde hair pushing up and fanning out against the surface, only inches away from my thighs. I stared down at him, unsure of what to do.

“Look, it’s been a really long day for me, and I’ve got work in the morning. I really don’t want to cook tonight. I just want terrible Chinese, crap telly, and to hang out on the couch with you. What do you say, hmm?” I smirked cynically ( _there’s that sex act negotiation, thought you’d be a bit more subtle than that, John_ ), but did my best to sound casual.  
  
“That sounds perfectly fine. But not a James Bond movie. And not that horrid place around the corner, the one with the wretched napkins.”  
  
“Don’t worry, Sherlock, we’ve been banned from ever ordering from there again, after that stunt you pulled with deducing our last delivery boy. I don’t think he’ll ever recover.”  
  
“No, I expect not. I wouldn’t, if a complete stranger told me my girlfriend was a closet lesbian,” I chuckled. After a moment, John laughed too, a warm, resonant noise that echoed off the tiles in the steamy bathroom. He looked up at me, through the glass. The shower door made his face into a Picasso, all distorted shapes and ambiguity, but I could tell that he was smiling still.

“Okay. I’ll make the call,” he said, standing up. “And before you say you don’t want anything, just tell me what you like best on the menu. If I know you, you’ll pick at it while I’m awake and devour it when I’m asleep.”

 I scowled. He was right.

“Sweet and sour chicken, with fried rice. And some eggrolls, “ I said grudgingly, rinsing the conditioner out of my hair.

John nodded and paused, almost imperceptibly, in the doorway, before moving to the living room.

His sudden absence sucked all of the tension out of the room – tension I didn’t notice until it was gone. I exhaled, rolled my shoulders, and turned the tap off, then realized something.

I’d have to walk across the living room, past John, and up the stairs in my towel.

It shouldn’t be a big deal. I’d done this dozens, if not hundreds of times in his tenure as my roommate. But it was different now, now that I knew he was thrilled by it. Now that he knew that _I knew_ that he was thrilled by it. Somehow, it was different.

I pushed the excess water off my body, wrapped the towel around myself, then rubbed some of the condensation off of the mirror and looked at my reflection critically ( _not bad for a man in his early early thirties, 6’2”, 160 lbs, about 8% body fat, full head of hair still, glad I got those genes, too bad for you, Mycroft_ ). I rubbed my track mark scars self-consciously ( _I hope John doesn’t find them distracting, it could kill the mood and then he might change his mind and go back to Priscilla and leave the Work and me in the lurch_ ), then stood up tall and opened the bathroom door, steam billowing out.

John was sitting in his chair, his back facing the bathroom, on the phone with the Chinese place. 

“No, no, please, this is _John Watson_ speaking– Sherlock Holmes doesn’t live here anymore – yes I promise – can I place my order now? Yes, I do remember, but he’s gone now, as I’ve already said,” John explained, sounding exasperated. I strolled past him, announcing, “Be down in a few”.  John didn’t respond ( _I must have done something really awful, I could hear her yelling from where I stood, maybe we had better not order from there anymore, they might put something in our food, I should run some experiments on that_ ), and I sneaked a look back down at him as I paused on the stairs.

John’s eyes were averted, staring unhappily into the middle distance, listening to her list of grievances, but shifted when he felt my eyes on him. His appreciative gaze flitted over my body so quickly I would have missed it if I weren’t looking for it. And then John smiled and _winked at me_.

I didn’t know what else to do, so I rolled my eyes at him and walked up the stairs.I heard John start laughing, then immediately start apologizing to the restaurant owner. “No, no, I’m not laughing _at_ you…”.

_Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Really, John? A wink? I expected more from you._


	4. Trust Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John tries to be a gentleman. Sherlock has some firsts.
> 
> Rated E for sexytimes. I promised there would be smut, didn't I?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. This is my very, very first attempt at writing smut, EVER. Even just for myself.
> 
> I'm both super nervous and super excited to share. Any and all feedback is welcome and deeply appreciated.

To my surprise, John didn’t make any advances that night on the couch. He sat a little closer, and when our knees bumped, he didn’t make any apologies. But he made no attempts to engage with me, sexually. Over the next week, he’d leave the bathroom door unlocked when he showered, and took special pains to announce when he was going to bed, his tone carefully casual. He also left his bedroom door ajar at night, something he’d never done before. He’d stand a little closer, stare a little longer, but he didn’t touch me. And he didn’t talk about the kiss.

After a few days, I began to worry. How could I expect to keep John around if his needs weren’t getting met? Was our last interaction unsatisfactory? Was he going to go back to Paige after all? I began reconsidering how necessary John was to the Work, after all. Was all of this worth it? Did I really care if he left? I could easily surpass his medical knowledge, given a few years of intensive study.

On the afternoon of the sixth day after our kiss, John’s keen observations at a crime scene, in combination with his diplomacy, proved once and for all how badly I needed him around. He pointed out that the victim had been moved after she’d been strangled, despite the killer taking special care to make it look as if she hadn’t, explaining why there was no evidence of a struggle in the apartment. When I shouted at Sally for missing such an important detail ( _even though embarrassingly, I hadn’t noticed yet, too fixated on the gummy residue on the bottom of her shoe, where the sticker was, the shoes had been on sale, she was on a budget, money problems?),_ John caught her eye and raised his eyebrows at her, and she pursed her lips and nodded, placated, the implicit “ _We talked about this, just let it go_ ” heavy in the air.

Without John, we would have lost twenty minutes, twenty minutes which proved crucial to us catching the killer ( _I saw a bright blonde strand of hair, nearly invisible against her white blouse, clearly not her hair, the killer would have wanted to make an immediate change to his appearance in case anybody saw him, I found him buying hair dye at the Tesco down the street_ ). Without John, Sally would have had me forcibly removed from yet another crime scene ( _37% chance of her having me arrested for being a nuisance, she was in an arresting sort of mood, happened when she was not eating enough iron)._ I needed him, no matter how much I didn’t want to admit it.

We were barely inside our flat when I crowded John up against the wall, my forehead pressed to his, pushing my hands underneath his jacket. John made a small noise that sounded somewhat like relief ( _about what, I wondered?),_ then pulled me down into a heated kiss.

It turns out that John had been gentle the first time he kissed me. It turns out that he was actually _holding back_. John raked his hands through my hair, then down the sides of my neck and to the front of my shirt. Before I knew what was happening, he pinched my nipples, hard, a gesture which shot straight from my nipples to my groin, and I instinctively rolled my hips forward, desperate for friction. I was instantly, achingly, almost painfully hard.

At my response, John’s expression went from lusty to downright feral.

“Do you like that, Sherlock?” he demanded, brushing them again through my shirt, the lightness of his touch making me grit my teeth in anguish. “Tell me you want it again. Tell me you want me to touch you like that again.” I pushed my chest against his hands, trying to increase the pressure. God, this was better than cocaine. Much, much better than cocaine.

( _Less expensive, too_ ).  
  
John’s hand slid up to my throat, and he squeezed, not so hard that it hurt, but hard enough to send a rush of adrenaline coursing through my body. He leaned in, his pupils enormous, his breath heavy on my face ( _coffee, toast, butter, craving Angelo’s, he’ll want to go later, once we're done here_ ).  
  
“I won’t do it again unless you say you want it, Sherlock, until you beg me for it. You have to tell me how badly you want it, how hard you are for it. Tell me how hard you are for me.”

This wasn’t supposed to be how it went. I was supposed to be removed, aloof, calculating. I was supposed to smile arrogantly at him coming undone for me. I was supposed to use these interactions as a data-gathering exercise, to learn more about him, to make him stay. Instead, I was experiencing psychological arousal for the first time – _for the very first time_ – in my life.

I _wanted_ John. And that absolutely would not do ( _turn this entire interaction on its ear, stop ceding control, take control, take charge, it’s all for the Work, do it for the Work_ ).

I grabbed his hands and pinned them against the wall, and leaned into his neck.

“Oh, you want _me_ to beg, John? You want _me_ to tell _you_ how hard _I_ am?” I purred in his ear. “Why don’t we spend a little time talking about how hard _you_ are for _me_?” Taking a gamble, I ran my hands down the front of his shirt, and settled on the front of his trousers, palming him. Bingo. John gasped and sank his teeth into my collarbone.

“Oh my _God_ ,” he groaned, unable to help himself as he pushed forward, into my hand.  
  
“Not quite, John. But I _am_ awfully good,” I chuckled into his ear, unbuttoning his shirt, and pushing the edges back to reveal his body.

I’d never seen John shirtless before. His chest was covered with a light dusting of dark blonde hair, and his body, while not as lean as mine, was firm and muscular. Before I could stop myself, I ran my fingertips over his torso, from his collarbone to the rim of his pants, peeking out over the top of his trousers. _He must have been carved out of wood in his army days, if this is what his body looks like as a civilian_ , I thought, unbidden, before shaking my head slightly. What a silly thought to have ( _focus, Sherlock, focus_ ).

I started in on his trousers, trying to ignore my anxiety, trying to remember what I had seen in the pornography. I pushed his trousers and his pants down in one smooth movement, and fell to my knees in front of him, his erection at eye level, rock-hard, leaking slightly.

“ _Sherlock_ –“ John gasped, grasping my shoulders.

“You talk too much, John,” I said, parroting a line I’d heard in some film, somewhere, and took him into my mouth.

If I thought kissing was intense, nothing compared to the sensation of John inside of me, the feeling of him sliding past my lips and onto my tongue. Nothing compared to the intensity of John’s taste, of the vulgar, throaty noises John was making, echoing slightly in our otherwise silent flat. Nothing compared to the feeling of John’s shaking hands, sliding up from my shoulders to my neck and anchoring themselves into my scalp, pulling hard from the roots.

I tried to remove myself from the experience, tried to pull away from it, mentally, but it was difficult not to _feel everything_ as I performed one of the most intimate acts imaginable, in a moment of absolute, complete deception. I tried not to think about that, instead focusing on finishing what I’d started.

After a few minutes of this, my jaw started to get tired, and I decided to try to speed things up a bit ( _the sooner he has an orgasm, the sooner we can get back to the Work – bet there’s an interesting case, with the summer holidays approaching_ ). I pulled myself off of him.

“Just fuck my face, John,” I ordered, looking up at him. John pulled back a little, perplexed, but undeniably aroused at the prospect.

“Jesus, Sherlock, are you sure? This is your first time and I don’t – “. I lost patience with him almost immediately.  
  
“ _Spare me_ your sentiment about making this a special experience for me, John! Just get going already!” I shouted.

John pulled back even further, his erection flagging somewhat. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “No, this isn’t right, I don’t want it to be like this. I don’t want to strip you of your power here.” He pursed his lips. “This doesn’t feel right, for you to feel this way about it.”  
  
I sighed, and looked down, searching my thoughts for an excuse, for any excuse, to convince him to continue. Finally, I came up with one, and looked up at him, my voice carefully emotional ( _at least what I imagined emotion would sound like, coming out of my mouth_ ).  
  
“John, you’re a dominant. I’m much more of a submissive. Trust me, I want it like this. Please, just give me want I want here. If you really want me to enjoy myself, you’ll do this. For me.”

John stared at me, stroking himself absent-mindedly, his eyes searching mine. After a few moments, I repeated myself.

“Trust me, John.”

He nodded, slowly at first, then faster.

“Okay. Okay. But if you change your mind, let me know and I’ll stop, immediately.” I responded by wrapping my mouth around him and taking him in as deep as I possibly could. John gasped at the contact, and gritted his teeth when I refused to move around him. Finally, slowly, he started pumping into me, fingers woven into my hair.

Even as John ground into my face, I could feel something holding him back. He wasn’t being brutal, he wasn’t being inconsiderate ( _how annoying, especially if that sentiment was an obstacle to his orgasm)._ I could feel the tension in his hips as he tried to make his movements slow and shallow, though the longer he kept it up, the more difficult it was for him to restrain himself.

Initially so vocal, he kept on getting quieter and quieter, until he suddenly inhaled deeply and spoke in a clear, urgent voice.  
  
“Oh fuck, Sherlock, I’m going to come soon.” I nodded, and grasped his thighs. His hips stuttered, his fingers dug into my scalp, and he stopped breathing entirely while he came into my mouth ( _bland, only slightly salty, but quite a lot, must not have been having much sex lately with what’s-her-face_ ). The thought of somebody else, anybody else, doing this, filled me with an odd sense of awareness of my own inexperience. How did I match up? Was I good enough to keep John interested? The others clearly hadn’t been. 

After a few moments of choked silence, John began gasping like a marathoner finishing a race. He slowly released his grip on my hair, and weakly leaned back onto the wall, his pants and trousers still around his ankles. He rolled his head up to the ceiling, eyes still closed, breathing hard. I leaned forward, onto my hands, suddenly feeling completely embarrassed, completely exposed, completely reduced. 

So this is what it felt like, being used.

I started to push myself back onto my feet, intent on getting away, when John leaned down and extended a hand.  
  
“Here, let me help you.” The gentleness in his voice was too much to bear, and I lashed out suddenly.  
  
“I don’t need your help in standing up, John, I’m not a cripple, like _you_ pretended to be for so long.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them, and John’s face changed from tender to completely unreadable in a heartbeat, as he crisply said, “I never said you were. I was just trying to be nice to you.” I averted my eyes, and stared at John’s neat row of shoes next to the door.

Any other man might have pulled his clothes back on, stepped past me, gone to his bedroom, and slammed the door. Any other man might have pushed me onto my back, yanked his pants and trousers up, and stalked out the door to go to the pub.  
  
But John stayed bent over, hand extended. I refused to look at him, but took his hand and let him pull me up. My knees ached from the abuse.

Before I could bolt away, John kissed me gently. I could taste the endorphins in his kiss, the post-orgasmic relaxation. He pulled away slightly and murmured, “Thank you.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
“For doing that for me. It was lovely. And I would love to return the favor – “ he smiled, touching my belt buckle. I pulled away instinctively.  
  
“Mmm-mmm,” I shook my head. “No, I’m not ready for that.” _(why the hell was he offering that, after what I just said to him, what’s his angle?)_

John nodded ( _he thinks it’s virginal shyness, he can’t see what’s really going on_ ).  
  
“That’s okay, Sherlock. Just let me know whenever you’re ready.” He started to lean down to pull his clothes back on, but stopped when I suddenly spoke.

“Why did you ignore me?” I blurted. John’s brow furrowed.  
  
“I beg your pardon?”  
  
“We kissed, and then you didn’t even try – you didn’t touch me for days. We still wouldn’t’ve touched if I hadn’t – just now.”  
  
“Sherlock, I didn’t touch you because I wanted you to come to me. I wanted you to want it. I wanted you to _know_ that you wanted it. I wanted for this, or for something like it, to be on your terms.” He smiled triumphantly, obviously pleased I'd been the one initiating.

“I was kind of running the show, that first time, and I wanted you to know that your desires mattered here, too. You can always come to me if you want me, when you want me.” He kissed me again, a gentle, quick kiss, and then reached down to pull his pants and trousers back up. As he bent over, he continued.

"And don't be afraid to ask for specifics. You want me to fuck your face? I'll do it, just ask for it. Anything you want, you can have it. Anything at all. I trust you, completely, with all of me."

I continued to stare past him, at the wall behind where his kind blue eyes had been, my stomach churning, my throat tight.

 _So this is what guilt feels like_. 


	5. Heat Wave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade texts Sherlock about a 7 during a heat wave.  
> John makes deductions.  
> Sherlock is impressed. 
> 
> Sexytimes ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You GUYS. Thank you so much for all of the kudos and your encouraging comments. Hope you like it!

Four days later, Lestrade texted me about a crime scene (at least a 7) that had John and me there in twenty minutes. In the cab, John frantically scrolled through his phone, re-reading articles on compound fractures, while I was in my mind palace, organizing ( _all of those stupid recipes from Mummy can go, John cooks, doesn’t know that I have four years of cooking lessons and sixteen years of “Mummy forcing me to watch her in the kitchen” under my belt, played dumb the first time we cooked together so I could spend more time on the Work_ ).

I had been avoiding John since the blowjob, disappearing for hours in Bart's, avoiding him around the flat. The experience had been deeply unsettling. I hated that John had made me feel that way. I hated that John had made me feel anything at all. And I hated knowing that I had ceded power in becoming attracted to him, in wanting him. To his credit, John had accepted my reticence, and had given me my space. 

He still left his bedroom door cracked at night. 

Once we were at the crime scene, John circled around the body, chewing the inside of his lip, looking up at the building from time to time. Finally, he spoke, not looking up at anybody.

“He didn’t jump from this building.”

“What?” Lestrade demanded, pushing past Anderson, who didn't even have the self-respect to looked annoyed at the abuse.  
  
“He didn’t jump from this building. The building isn’t high enough to have caused compound fractures that look like this. The man jumped – maybe fell – from another building, at least a few stories higher than this one. At least. He was moved to this spot.” John paused to wipe his forehead. It was unseasonably hot for April, and I could feel sweat dripping down my back. I couldn’t imagine how overheated John was in that awful sweater if I was sweating like this in my silk dress shirt. After a few moments, he spoke again, suddenly. “You need to investigate similarities between the woman who was moved to that apartment a few weeks back, and this case.”  
  
“But we caught the killer for that aparment one,” Anderson offered unhelpfully. John held up his hand, cutting me off from making a rude comment.

“You caught one of the killers,” John corrected.  “Or you caught the original killer, and this is a copycat. Or you caught a copycat, and this is the original killer,” John mused, squinting at the body. “I just don’t think this is a coincidence. Sherlock? What do you think?”  
  
“The universe is rarely so lazy,” I breathed, caught off guard ( _not bad, John, not bad for someone with barely above-average intellect_ ). John smiled sardonically, and nodded.

“So I think the next step is to look for clues here, and then try to make connections between this case and the last one. Also, look for any cold cases where it looked like the body had been moved. Sod it, look for any cold cases, period, and make sure that you are certain that the victim died where their body was found.”

“But that’ll take days and days, maybe weeks, the killer could strike again while we’re looking,” Sally complained, pinning her hair up, with a sidelong glance at Anderson ( _they’re on the outs again, she’s hoping to be alluring, but he’s studiously looking at the body, he’s actually trying this time_ ).

“Maybe. And maybe we’ll find nothing, and someone will die because we were looking in the wrong place. Or maybe we’ll find the connections and prevent dozens of deaths.” Sally balked, glancing over at Lestrade, who looked at me. I quickly glanced away from John and cleared my throat ( _I’d been staring, who had seen me staring?_ ) _._

“On this _extraordinarily_ rare instance, I believe that John may be right,” I commented, my voice carefully casual, and sniffed. “The body was _obviously_ moved, and the killer is trying fairly hard to make it seem as if the body hadn’t been moved, just like last time. The fact that they did a good job of it leads me to believe that you may have failed to notice that a body had been moved at a previous crime scene. Look throught the cold cases. I find Sally and Anderson better-suited for mind-numbingly simple tasks anyways.”

 

* * *

 

 

“I want to shower first,” I announced the moment we were in the cab.

“Fine. You always shower first, anyways,” John said listlessly, resting his head against the window and closing his eyes. It had been an exhausting day, and the muggy heat blanketing the city had gone from uncomfortable to downright oppressive, and the air was heavy with the promise of rain.

“Oh come now, John, you know you prefer a cooler shower than I do anyways, it’s only reasonable that I use the shower first and that I get the hot water, which I value, instead of you,” I said, trying to be flip, but John was not having it.

“Right, except I prefer a cooler shower, not a shower that’s downright glacial, and what would be reasonable would be to take turns,” John snapped, and we spent the rest of the cab ride in silence ( _the heat has made him testy, if I want to appease him, I should tell him I want him to have the shower first, but that would mean that he’d know that I want to appease him, and I can’t have that_ ).  

Once inside the flat, John immediately went to his laptop ( _probably to start writing on his blog, almost certainly to send Harry an e-mail, she hasn’t answered his last few phone calls, he thinks it’s the drinking, it’s actually a new girlfriend_ ), while I headed for the shower. I peeled off my clothes, dropped them on the floor, and stepped into the shower. 

The water ran over my body, and I closed my eyes. Unbidden, the memory of John at the crime scene came to me. John looking down ( _freckles on his eyelids from sleeping outside in Afghanistan, quick little naps taken while completely exhausted, John usually likes a very dark room to sleep in_ ). The realization dawning in his gray-blue eyes, making the connetions the others hadn’t been able to see ( _the connections I would have been able to see, given another twelve minutes_ ). John managing the situation between Anderson, Sally, and me, immediately hustling me away after that comment, setting me to work checking out the adjacent alleyways ( _his rough, warm hands on my bicep, I could feel him squeezing it reflexively, evaluatively, he hadn’t touched me since that blowjob, not even a kiss_ ). His voice, smooth and quick, ordering the loathsome Anderson about, while I watched smugly. His mouth, thin-lipped and impatient, hearing Lestrade out, then telling him why he was wrong.

I traced my fingers idly down my body, and grasped my cock. Completely hard. I breathed unsteadily, and stroked, gently at first, then harder ( _the smell of John’s aftershave when he brushed past me to ask the neighbors what they had seen, sandalwood and orange; John’s smile at my comment about coincidences; taking a quick break to the side, his head tipped back, his eyes closed, stretching his neck out, just like that time by the door, me on my knees, my mouth on his–)_

“Sherlock, do you know where – “ John called, stepping into the bathroom. I froze immediately, mid-stroke.  
  
“…Sherlock…?” John breathed, stepping toward the shower, “…are you…masturbating?” he finished lamely.  
  
“Yes,” I heard myself say ( _ask what about, ask if it’s you_ ). I saw John nod through the glass door, processing this. Unable to help myself, I slid my hand over my erection, ever so slightly, and exhaled shakily.

“Do…do you want me to come in there?”  
  
“No.” ( _too much, too much, too close, too much_ ).

“Do you want me to leave?”

“No.” ( _definitely not that_ ).

John stood there in silence, rocking slightly. I tightened my grip and began stroking with more conviction, unable to care if John could see these movements through the glass door ( _almost hoping that he could)._ After over a minute of complete silence, save for the sound of the water hitting the tiles, John spoke, his voice sonorous, his pace slightly quicker than usual.

“Do you know how often I’ve fantasized about this, Sherlock? Do you know how many times I’ve listened to you shower through that wall, thinking about how you’d look naked, while I…? Do you know many times I’ve come in here after you’ve showered, and touched the water on the tiles, just because it touched you?” He shifted slightly, and I could see him flex his hands ( _arousal, he wants to touch himself, too_ ).

“You should,” I whispered, closing my eyes. John froze.

“What was that, Sherlock?”  

“You should touch yourself, John,” I replied, turning my head to stare at him through the glass. After a moment, I saw John reach down, undo his trousers, and pull himself out, already hard, almost as hard as I was. He began stroking himself, and stepped closer to the shower. We stood there, only inches apart, watching each other, breathing hard, wanking furiously. After a few minutes, John spoke ( _he’s close, he’s looking for something to push himself over the edge)_.

“Tell me what you want, Sherlock. Tell me. _Exactly_. What you want,” he demanded, his movements getting faster, more forceful. I sank my teeth into my lower lip, biting back a moan.

“Tell me exactly – “

“I want you to fuck me, hard,” I blurted, my face flushing, my voice shaking with arousal and with the effort of my movements. “I want you to be rough with me, careless of my inexperience. I want to feel what it’s like to have you inside me again, to come inside me again.”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” John gasped, slamming his hand up against the shower door, bracing himself. On instinct alone, I pressed my hand up against the shower door, my hand eclipsing his.

“Now you,” I ordered, breathily, my own orgasm swiftly approaching. “Tell me what you want.” John laughed softly, his breath short and quick.

“God, Sherlock, if I could just stand here, wanking to you, wanking to me? That would be enough to get me through a lifetime.”

At his words, I came immediately, the force of my orgasm pushing me forward, onto the tile of the wall, shouting incoherently. I was vaguely aware of John’s response as he came almost immediately after I did ( _we’re coming together, to each other, what is this feeling, this feeling of having gleefully shared a secret_ ). I closed my eyes and rested my head on the wall, gasping for breath as the last shocks of pleasure reverberated through my body.

“I’ll, ah – I’ll let you finish up in there so I can have a go at the shower while there’re still a few drops of hot water left in the tank,” John said, jerking me out of my reverie. His voice was businesslike ( _that’s John’s instinct when he gets embarrassed, when I catch him doing something, like that time I caught him staring at the David Beckham advert_ ).

“Sorry about that,” I said, before I could stop myself.

“What?” John asked incredulously. “What did you say, Sherlock?”

“Sorry about letting the water run like that, while we were... And…and sorry for not thinking to let you have the shower first. I know that you might have liked it. What with the sweater and all, today. While it is your fault that you wore something so absurdly warm for this weather, I suppose it would have been kind of me to offer you the shower first. In spite of your stupidity.” John laughed, a mix of annoyance and amusement.

“That is the absolute worst apology I’ve ever heard in my life. But it’s still the best one I’ve ever heard from you. Actually, scratch that, it’s the only apology I’ve ever heard from you. And it’s alright, Sherlock, there’s always next time for you not to act a total dick.” John’s voice betrayed the affection with which he intended his response, and he exited the bathroom. Moments later, I heard my phone vibrate, sliding across the toilet tank. I grabbed my towel, drying off my hands, then checked my messages.

_Mutual masturbation? Isn’t that a bit juvenile, even for you?_

_No more juvenile than sneaking sweets. Whatever would your personal trainer say? -SH_


	6. ...Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes to grips with his emotions for John in a moment of crisis.  
> Sexytimes ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long to write - it's a pretty important chapter and I wanted to get it Just So before posting. Thanks for your patience, and all of your lovely feedback and support - you are the best!

I knew that I wanted John. I knew that I needed John for the Work. But I didn’t realize that I loved John, loved him more than my next breath, until a criminal buried a gun in his mouth and threatened to pull the trigger.

The thin, haggard-looking man grabbed John’s hair, yanked his head back, and shoved the gun deep in his mouth, deep enough for John to gag on it.

“Not one. Step. Closer, or I pull the trigger,” growled the suspect. “And then I’ll kill you next. Stay right where you are.”

I caught John’s gaze, and my stomach dropped. His eyes were glassy, unfocused, and he stared right through me ( _he’s giving up, he’s giving up, he’s waiting to die, no John, no, you can’t die, no no no no no, it’s too soon, you can’t leave me_ ).

“Now what you’re going to do,” he hissed, “is you’re gonna call off your frien’s. You’re gonna tell ‘em that you checked the house, and that there’s nothing  ‘ere. You’re going to tell ‘em that Blondie ‘ere went for a drink or somethin’, and you’re going to walk out of this house an’ preten’ that nothin’ is wrong. And then Blondie an’ I are gonna ‘ave a little chat.”

I reached into my pocket, my mind racing, and slowly pulled out my phone. I started scrolling through my contacts, when I suddenly stopped.

“John, I don’t seem to have Gavin’s number saved. Do you know it?” ( _it’s a lie, I have it saved under ‘Slightly Less Moronic One’ but this might buy us some time_ ).

John nodded, and cocked his head to his pocket. His mobile phone.

“Oh, for _fuck’s sake_ ,” snarled the criminal, rolling his eyes. “Get the phone out, Blondie.”

John reached into his jacket, pulled out the phone, the handgun still lodged deep in his mouth. He began to extend his arm, to hand the phone off to me, and I took a few steps forward, not thinking.

“Stay where you are!” he bellowed, crouching low beside John. “Don’t think I won’t kill ‘im right now! I will blow ‘is fuckin’ brains out right now and I will make you watch!” I froze immediately.

“How exactly do you propose I get the phone, then?” I demanded, thrusting my hands in the air.

“Blondie ‘ere will throw it to you. Go on then, throw it,” he ordered. John tossed me the phone, and in a moment of inspiration, I fumbled it and dropped it. The back of the phone popped off, and the battery fell out, slipping through the cracks of the rotten floors. This sent the criminal into a blind rage, and he yanked the gun out of John’s mouth and pointed it at me.

“You fuckin’ _imbecile_. You did that on purpose! You stupid _fucking_ –“

In his rage, the criminal had advanced on me, completely ignoring John, who silently pulled his left leg up into a runner’s crouch, then sprang forward, tackling him. The gun went off, the bullet narrowly missing me ( _my adrenaline was far too high to tell if it hit me but I heard the window behind me break_ ). In only a few moments, John pinned the screaming criminal. Below us, I heard a flurry of activity, and Gerry screaming, “John! Sherlock! We’re coming!”

“We’re up here, we’re up here!” I gasped, my voice oddly shaky. Garth, Anderson, and Donovan charged up the stairs, guns drawn. The criminal was handcuffed immediately, hoisted off the floor, and pushed out of the room, leaving John and I alone, staring at one another. After a few moments, John suddenly shivered, and gave me an exhausted smile.

“I suppose we should head down and fill out a repo –“

I close the space between us in a few strides and crushed my mouth on his, desperate, hungry, my hands roving over him wildly.

“Don’t you ever-,” I gasped between kisses, “-give up on me like that again, John, don’t you ever let me see you give up again, John, I cannot do the Work without you, I cannot – “

John pulled away, his mouth swollen and his pupils enormous with desire. “Sherlock, what- what are you talking about? Giving up?”

“I saw it, John, when he – when he had the gun in your mouth, you gave up, you – “

“Sherlock, for Christ’s sake,  I wasn’t giving up. I was focusing. When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, sometimes you need to step away, mentally, to be able to see – you know – to see what needs to be done. Sort of like your Mind Palace, I suppose. I wasn’t giving up, though, how could I give up? I –“ John trailed off suddenly, biting his lower lip, gaze shifting inward. After a few moments of silence, he spoke, not looking up at me.

“I’m going to go downstairs and fill out that paperwork. After that, you and I are going to swing by that Thai place, pick up loads of takeaway, and go home.” He looked up at me and smiled quickly. “Nothing whets a man’s appetite quite like having a gun in your mouth.”

* * *

 

“You know, it’s not the best yellow curry I’ve ever had, but their chicken is so good I don’t really mind it so much,” John commented, gathering the empty boxes to put them in the rubbish. I watched him from my chair, chewing on my forefinger. I was a bit embarrassed at my outburst there, at the crime scene, but John was continuing to treat me with the same unpatronising politeness with which he treated everybody, even here in our own flat.

  
“Think I’m going to go to bed now, I’ve got work in the morning,” he called from the kitchen. “If you get hungry later, I’ve put the leftovers in the refrigerator door, next to the jam.”  
  
“That’s not jam, John.” At this, John slammed the dishes down.

“Sherlock, what the fu- that had better be sorted by the time I get up in the morning. You are bloody lucky we had this conversation before I had my toast tomorrow morning. One more of these incidents and I swear, we are getting a second refrigerator for just your things, and you are paying for it.”

“Or we could get a second refrigerator for food and you could pay for it, since you eat approximately eight times as much as I eat,” I said sulkily. His anger was somehow a welcome distraction from my churning stomach ( _how do I tell him, when do I tell him, what if he finds out the truth?_ ).  
  
“Eight multiplied by zero is still zero, so not quite, Sherlock,” John retorted. “Stop storing these wretched experiments next to food I eat, or at the very least stop storing them in bloody food containers. And while you’re reorganizing the refrigerator, eat some real food. There is absolutely no way you’re getting proper nutrition from tea and the odd biscuit.” ( _Not quite, John, I started taking vitamins after you lectured me about my diet, but I’ve been hiding them in the licorice jar so you won’t know_ ). “Right, then. I’m going to brush my teeth and go to bed, I’m absolutely knackered.” He stalked to the bathroom and slammed the door.

I sat in silence, listening to John’s nighttime rituals ( _wet the washcloth with cold water, scrub the face and ears, brush, floss with a surgeon’s precision, inspect crow’s feet and forehead wrinkles, examine hairline, it’s not receding but he’s convinced it is, constantly compares his hair to mine, if I’m lucky I’ll listen to those sounds the rest of my life_ ). I settled deeper into my chair and steepled my fingers.

I loved John. I loved John, and I simply could not imagine my life without him. I didn’t want to imagine my life without him. John was the only person who kept the flat from being condemned, the only person who managed to prevent me from being banned from crime scenes entirely, the only person who saw my obsession with the Work as an integral part of my personality, instead of treating me like a dog performing a trick, who’d be swatted if it made a mistake ( _Gerard_ ), or a freak ( _Anderson_ , _Donovan_ ), or like a little boy with a stamp collection ( _Mycroft_ ). John was the only person who kept the demons at bay. A few weeks ago, when a mishandling of evidence meant that a rapist got aquitted, John was the one who prevented me from turning my faded track marks into fresh ones (“ _Bad people get away sometimes, Sherlock, it’s no reflection on you or your ability, you’re still doing so much good, come on, let’s go to Angelo’s and then go see if Molly is around_.”).

I was jolted from my thoughts when John exited the bathroom and nodded curtly at me, his hair ruffled from his nightly inspection of his hair density ( _still in a mood about the “jam”)._ “Goodnight, Sherlock.” He turned into his bedroom.

“After a fairly traumatic experience at the crime scene, I do not think it wise for either of us to sleep alone tonight,” I announced. John stopped, then turned around slowly, his face carefully neutral.

“What are you suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that we occupy the same bed tonight.” ( _Indefinitely, even, if you'll have me_ ).

“Right. But why?”

“As I’ve just said - we’ve both had a pretty distressing experience. You very nearly died, and I very nearly watched you die. When one human share close quarters with another human, the brain releases-“

“Have a cuddle. You’re asking to have a cuddle with me, in my bedroom,” John said slowly, in a way that did not require an answer from me. After a few moments of silence, he nodded quickly. “Okay. Okay, that sounds – come on in.”

I had been in John’s bedroom before, but not since John had moved in. It was small – much smaller than my own room – but it felt considerably larger and cooler because of its tidiness. A sizeable collection of heavily bookmarked medical textbooks occupied the small bookcase next to his desk, which was completely clear, save for his laptop and his diary ( _wonder what’s in it_ ). His clothes for tomorrow were already laid out on his chair, even his socks.

John hovered next to the left side of the bed, gesturing awkwardly. “I usually sleep on this side, I hope you don’t mind the right side, that’s where, ah, that’s where visitors usually sleep.” He laughed, a little incredulously ( _he can’t believe I’m in here, he’s left the bedroom door open for well over a month and I’m finally here, I can’t believe it took me this long, either_ ). I paused for a moment, and John quickly added, “Not that I have a lot of visitors. And I’ve washed the sheets since the last one. Last week in fact. Not that I had a visitor last week. But I did wash the sheets last week.”  He looked down, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t know why I’m doing this. I guess I’m just really glad that you’re here.”

The unspoken ‘… _finally_ ’ hung in the air between us.

“I’m really glad I’m here, too, John,” I said, undoing my dressing gown and throwing it on the ground. John’s eyes filled with disapproval at my carelessness, but he said nothing, and we both slid under the covers in silence. We lay there, side by side, staring at the cracks in the ceiling.

“Sherlock, did you mean that?” John asked finally, turning his head to me ( _he must really be a neatnick to be so distracted by my dressing gown on the floor that it took him nearly half a minute to process what I just said_ ).

“Mean that I’m glad that I’m here? Have you ever known me to use platitudes?”

John paused, then smiled. “No. I suppose not.” A few moments of silence passed before John cleared his throat, and reached for the lamp. “Right. Goodnight, Sherlock.” Darkness enveloped us.  
  
“Goodnight, John.”

( _I love you_ ).

* * *

I woke up the next morning back-to-back against John, our feet tangled up in on another. I checked my phone. _06:17_. John didn’t need to be up for another thirteen minutes. I set the phone down as carefully as possible, trying not to wake John.

It was no use ( _years in the army made him a light sleeper)._ John stirred, disentangled himself from me, and turned to face me. I stared at him, fascinated. I’d never seen another human first thing in the morning. Even in the darkness, I could see how mad his hair looked, all pushed up on one side. It was oddly endearing to see him like this.

“Sorry I woke you, “ I managed, my voice raspy from underuse.

“It’s fine. It’s all fine.” John paused, then reached forward, resting his hand on my shoulder. “It’s more than fine, really.”

“John – “ I began, my heart in my throat. He slid his hand up into my hair and pulled me to him, our noses touching for just a moment before his voice cut through the darkness.

“Sherlock, shut up, for once in your life, just shut up.”

John pressed his lips against mine softly at first, then harder and harder, until by the sheer force of his mouth, I was flat on my back and he was straddling me, grinding up against me. He was already completely hard, and the sensation of our erections pressing against one another made me gasp into his mouth. John responded by pulling my hair deeply, from the roots, a sensation which made me dizzy with arousal.

“Why in God’s name are you still wearing clothes?” John whispered, kissing his way from my jaw to the crook of my shoulder. My back arched at the sensation of his lips on my skin, and I gasped out some incoherent answer. John smirked into my neck, and slid his hands under my shirt and threw it onto the floor with my dressing gown. He stared down at me, then shook his head, looking somewhat dazed.

“Christ, you’re bloody gorgeous,” he whispered throatily, before dropping his mouth to my chest. He lightly traced his tongue around my nipple, then closed his teeth on it.  

“ _Fuck_!” I shouted, instictively sliding my hand between our bodies, down to my erection, grasping it through my pants, precum leaking through the silky material. “Oh, _fuck_! John!” At my exclamation, John ground even harder into me.  
  
“Christ, I want you in my mouth,” John gasped into my chest. “Let me taste you, Sherlock.”

“G-god yes. Oh _God_ , yes,” I stammered. John swung his leg over and crouched next to me on the bed, kissing me deeply as he slid my pants off. The soft sound of my pants hitting the ground jolted me back to reality – I was naked in front of John for the first time, and he was about to give me a blowjob.

When I went down on John, I was the one in control of the entire experience. He was the one who was helpless to my movements, who was pleasured at my whim. Even though I was the one on my knees, I was in charge. And now I would be ceding that power to another person, even if it was to a man I desperately loved.

“Here, swing your legs over to the side, so I can kneel,” John whispered, pulling himself off the bed and grabbing a pillow.

“John, wait, I’m – I’m...” John froze immediately, staring intently at me.

“What is it? Tell me.”

“I’ve just never done this before. I don’t know what to expect. I don’t know what it’s going to feel like, physically, psychologically…” John dropped the pillow on the floor, and placed his hands on my shoulder.

“We really don’t have to do this, Sherlock, if you’re not ready.” He rubbed my shoulders, and I relaxed a little. “Alternatively, we could do this, and I could stop if you start feeling uncomfortable.”

“Alright. Let’s…let’s try it. See how it goes.” John smiled, nodded, and dropped his hand to my somewhat flagged erection, stroking it gently. He leaned in and touched his lips lightly to mine.

“I can’t say I’m disappointed, Sherlock, I’ve wanted to blow you since I met you,” he rumbled against my mouth.  At his words, I got hard so quickly I was actually dizzy, and I keened slightly forward as he dropped to his knees. Still stroking me, John ran his mouth over my torso and snaked his other hand behing me, gripping my back, pushing me slightly closer to the edge of the bed.

“Ask for it,” John ordered, kissing my hipbone. “Tell me you want it. I need to hear you say you want it.”

“Please, John – “ was all I could manage before his mouth closed around me.

The sensation of John’s mouth on my erection was the sweetest, most intense pleasure I’d ever known, a thousand times better than the best cocaine, a hundred times better than the best heroin. I tried desperately not to come immediately, to make this moment last, to memorize the feel of one hand cupping my balls gently, one hand on my shaft, moving in rhythm with his mouth, the feral look on his face as he took me into his mouth again and again. He dropped his hand from my balls, and I glanced down between us to see him pull himself, completely erect, from his pants and start wanking furiously. At the sight of John masturbating to blowing me, all of my valiant efforts to keep from coming were wasted. I barely had time to warn John as my orgasm started swelling.

“John, I’m going to – I’m going to – “ I choked, tapping him on the shoulder. John responded by taking me into his mouth completely, and doing something indescribably erotic with his tongue, sending me completely over the edge. I gasped incoherently as pleasure, almost painful in its intensity, coursed through my body.

My orgasm only seemed to arouse him more, and his wanking grew faster and more forceful. Finally, he released me from his mouth entirely, and leaned forward on his free hand, bracing himself. After a few moments of tense silence, he gasped loudly and dropped his head, watching himself come, a move so incredibly erotic that it would fuel my fantasies for weeks. His movements slowed, then stopped entirely. John leaned his head on my knee, breathing hard, and glanced up at me with a boyish smile.

“Sherlock, that was – “

At that precise moment, John’s alarm went off, and John’s eyes closed in frustration, his smile fading.

“Bloody – of course,” John sighed, and reached for his phone. He fiddled with it for a few seconds, turned the alarm off, then shook his head. “Right, then. This is the absolute worst timing, but I really do need to –“

I waved my hand. “No, no. It’s fine. Go.” I scooted backwards, grabbed my pants and shirt from the floor, and slid them on as John stood up and started getting dressed. Once he finished, he turned to me and nodded.

“Well, have a good day, then, Sherlock. I’ll see you tonight.”  
  
“You, too, John. See you tonight.” ( _Good luck with those vaccinations, can’t tell him that, he’ll want to know how I deduced it, will insist upon hearing the answer, even at the expense of being late, which will make his day that much more hectic_ ). He gave me a small wave, then shut the bedroom door gently behind him.

* * *

 

When I finally got out of bed, hours later, I found a small note on the kitchen counter, written in John’s neat, precise handwriting.

_Sherlock –_

_Meet me at Angelo’s at 8. Wear the purple shirt._

_\- John_

_PS) Don’t forget to sort out the “jam” before then. I mean it._


End file.
